


Palingenesis

by partyghoul



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partyghoul/pseuds/partyghoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an unknown, mute man shows up to Our Lady of Sorrows Home For Boys, Father Patrick calls in ex-Missing Persons Detective Frank Iero to help with the case. As he struggles to find the man's identity, Frank ends up unraveling the tale of a 1950's murder, discovering that death ends a life, not a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life Is But A Dream For The Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look up the title name definition unless you want to give away the story!!!  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will they give me the chair?  
> Or lethal injection, or swing from a rope if you dare!  
> \---  
> Life is but a dream for the dead,  
> And well I, I won't go down by myself,  
> But I'll go down with my friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Week's Chapter Is Based On The Song- "You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison" by My Chemical Romance

 

****

**July 28, 1950**

    A man sits alone in his jail cell, looking at yellowing newspaper articles. They all detail the murder of singer Jonathan Beyzar. The man quietly sings as he reads the headlines. _"When you're awake, the things you think come from the dream you dream. Thought has wings, and lots of things are seldom what they seem."_  
    Some articles detail the arrest and subsequent trial of Jonathan's "jealous partner," composer Alexzander Beyzar.  The man hears an annoying snip, snip, snip, but continues to read and sing. _"Sometimes you think you've lived before. All that you love today. Things you do come back to you as though they knew the way. Oh, the tricks your mind can play."_  
    Faded photographs of the handsome Jonathan line the walls along with crime scene shots of his body beneath a sheet, a missing necklace, a pair of bloody scissors, and the murder site: a huge mansion fronted by high gates with a wrought-iron treble clef mounted in the center. _"It seems we stood and talked like this before. We looked at each other in the same way then, but I can't remember where or when."_ The man grimaces as he reads the author of every article: Ray Toro. _"The clothes you're wearing are the close you wore. The smile you are smiling then, but I can't remember where or when."_  
    All four walls of the cell are covered with the articles. Alexzander Beyzar, the singing man, sits in shadows, getting his hair cut by a heavyset guard. _"Some things that happened for the first time seem to be happening again. And so it seems that we have met before and that we laughed before, also loved before. But who knows where or when?"_  
    Ray Toro, a man in his early thirties, dressed in a white suit and hat steps up to the bars of Alexzander's cell. He takes a deep drag off his cigarette as another guard unlocks the cell door.  
    "Come on in, Mr. Toro," Alexzander says, his German accent coming to light. As Toro steps inside, his eyes widen at the sight of the cell walls. "As you can see, I've become quite a fan of yours."  
    Toro brushes some hair off of a nearby chair and sits down. "I'm flattered," he replies as he takes off his hat. He waits, watching the guard work at cutting Alexzander's hair. After a long silence, he leans forward to get a better look at the prisoner. "That why you asked me to come down to Death Row? Just so you could tell me what a fan you are?"  
    "I'd like to ask a favor of you," Alexzander says as the guard finally finishes cutting.  
    Toro lights yet another cigarette, flippantly blowing smoke in Alexzander's direction. "What kind of favor?"  
    "I'd like you to print something. I mean, after all..." Alexzander leans forward into the light, revealing that his hair has been clipped to the scalp. "...you're so good at that." Startled, Toro looks away, his cocky appearance rapidly abandoning him. "I'd like you to print that I said I loved my husband and that I'll love him forever." Toro nods and nervously brushes a clump of Alexzander's hair from his lap. "Will you do that?"  
    "You loved your husband, sure," Toro says abruptly.  
    "And that I'll love him forever."  
    "Yeah, right. Forever."  
    Alexzander smiles at Toro, and then resumes singing as the guard sets the scissors down on a small bed table.  
    "Aren't you afraid of dying? Of people knowing that you and Jonathan were...lovers?"  
    "My sun sets to rise again," Alexzander replies, a coy smile on his lips.  
    "That a line from one of your songs?" Toro asks, laughing.  
    "It's Robert Browning," Alexzander says, smiling. "I can't take credit for everything, Mr. Toro."  
    Toro sits up, tries to regain control of things, and exhales a thin, steady stream of smoke in Alexzander's direction. "Really believe that you're ready to die? Ready to be forgotten?"  
    "I won't be forgotten.’The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.'"  
    "Who said that?"  
    "Cicero." Toro flinches slightly as Alexzander reaches out, removing a clump of his own hair from the man's jacket. "In all honesty, Mr. Toro, I believe that this is all far from over." Alexzander stands as the warden and several prison officials appear at the cell door.  
    Toro eyes the pair of scissors sitting on the table. "You still killed him." Alexzander smiled, drilling holes in whatever confidence Toro might have left. "Didn't you?"  
    Alexzander cuts a look at the warden and his group, then slowly bends down and puts his mouth to Toro's ear. The guards watch, listening closely, but hearing nothing. Toro is blank-faced as Alexzander straightens up and walks to the cell door. "I'm all yours, Warden," he says before singing again. _"Some things that happened for the first time seem to be happening again."_  
    Toro turns to the bed table covered with Alexzander's hair and leans over and with one sharp breath, scatters the hair to reveal a newspaper bearing the headline; ALEXZANDER BEYZAR TO BE EXECUTED TODAY. The date is July 28, 1950. Suddenly, Toro realizes that the scissors are nowhere in sight and he looks about the cell in a panic.  
    Meanwhile, a singing Alexzander is led down the row by the warden and his armed entourage. A group of reporters and photographers wait at the far end of the row, a young man among them. He's unusually handsome, in his late twenties, and wearing a white dress shirt with the first four buttons undone.  
    Alexzander smiles at the man, singing louder and louder and he gets closer. The young man smiles back and his shirt moves open, sparking attraction between the two.  
    Behind them, way up the row, Toro runs from Alexzander's cell and calls out, "Stop him!"  
    The man's smile fades as he looks down and sees the pair of scissors in Alexzander's hand. "These are for you," Alexzander says, causing the man to scream in terror. Alexzander smiles as he thrusts the open scissors into the man's throat.

 

* * *

    The man with no name sits up in bed and screams in fright. He grabs his throat, checking himself for blood. A dream? He looks around the room as if he has no idea where he is. He gets out of bed and walks to the window and sees huge, wrought-iron gates with a large treble clef in the middle in the distance. He sighs and turns away from the window.  
    He can see lights flicker on, and then off from underneath the door. He moves towards them, then steps out into the flickering white light of a hallway. He panics and runs to the end of the hall before hurrying down some very steep stairs. He sees the lights flicker on in a room, a study of some sort, just off the entry hall. He immediately runs inside and moves to an ornate telephone. He picks it up only to discover the line is dead.  
    Suddenly, the lights flicker off, immersing the man in darkness. He runs to the oak front door, pulls it open, and gasps. A looming figure stands in from of him, its face barred in darkness. The lights flicker once more and the figure appears to be Alexzander Beyzar. "These are for you," he says, smiling as he raises a pair of scissors and thrusts them into the man's throat.

 

* * *

  **July 28, 2008.**  


    Yet again, the man with no name sits up and screams. He clutches at his throat, but feels no wound. Another nightmare. He sighs heavily and looks at the small digital clock by the bed: 12:00 a.m. Outside, the trees tap at the window as he gets up and moves to it. In the distance, he sees the gates with the giant treble clef in the middle. He turns to the door and sees that it's blocked with a chair. He hears footsteps as white light from the hallway stream underneath the door.  
    The footsteps stop as soon as the man slowly moves to the door. He listens for a moment before moving the chair aside and grabbing the doorknob, stiffening as he feels it turn in his hand. He whips the door open to reveal a cloaked figure standing there. He screams and the lights flicker on, revealing that the cloaked figure is a nun, not a murderer.  
    The man with no name back away, screaming louder as the nun steps into the room. "Shh, you're all right, child. I'm not going to hurt you.

 

* * *

    "We found him two nights ago trying to get inside by climbing over the gates," the nun from the night before says, looking over a sheet of notes. "Since then, he hasn't spoken a single word. He won't eat and when he does sleep, he has violent nightmares." The nun looks over to the priest standing by the window, looking outside.  
    A group of young boys play soccer on the front lawn. The man with no name sits nearby on a cement bench. Though he appears to be watching the kids play, his expression remains passive, as if his world extends only about a foot in front of his face. The priest's gaze wanders over to a sign that says; OUR LADY OF SORROWS HOME FOR BOYS. He sighs and turns to face the young woman. "Call the police."  
    "They've already been here," the nun says, remembering how the cop rolled the man's finger in the ink pad, smiling, holding onto his finger longer than necessary. "All they did was fingerprint him; say they'd put his description into their computer. They said there's nothing for them to do until someone reports him missing. They think he belongs in County Hospital."  
    "Okay. Fine," the priest says, his tone indifferent.  
    "I've done charity work there, Father. It's a horrible place." The priest frowns, but holds his tongue. "Yesterday I had our own Dr. Trohman examine him. He gave him a shot of something to help relax his subconscious. Though he didn't find out who he is, Dr. Trohman did say that his vocal chords seem to be fine. In fact, Sister Dennis heard him call out what she said sounded like, "Dysher" or "Disher" is his sleep."  
    "Disher?" The priest asks, rolling his eyes. "Sounds like nothing to me."  
    "Dr. Trohman thinks the reason he's not speaking is because he either saw something or experienced something that frightened him into silence. He called it 'Traumatic Vocal Impairment.'"  
    The priest yet again looks out the window, watching as the soccer ball rolls over to the man with no name. He doesn't move. A little boy runs over to retrieve the ball, but stops several feet short, staying frozen as the man looks up at him. Suddenly, a nun with a whistle around her neck finally runs over and grabs the ball... and the boy. "The man belongs downtown."  
    "Father, he doesn't look _crazy_ , he looks terrified. Every night he goes to bed, he blocks the door with a chair. And if you had heard him scream..."  
    "Sister, I don't have to hear him scream. I've heard many screams in my time. Stay in a place like this long enough, and you'll find that everything gets dumped on your doorstep at one time or another." The priest turns away from the window and stares at the nun. "But we've dedicated our lives here to one thing: helping boys with no parents. That's a great deal. We can't very well take on new obligations at the expense of that now can we?" The nun starts to speak, but he cuts her off. "that is unless, of course, you think we should amend our purpose here to include the care and feeding of the homeless?"  
    "I will not abandon him, Father." The nun's expression hardens into resolve.  
    The priest frowns, seeing where this is all going. He points to the bookshelf. "Hand me the phone book."  
    "What for?"  
    "You do agree he doesn't belong here?"  
    "Yes, but--"  
    "So what if we bring him to County Hospital? He's not spending another night here, and that's final. But...I see no reason why we can't have someone look for his family in the meantime," Father says, leaning over to grab the phone book himself.  
    "Father, we don't have the money to hire anybody."  
    "The man I have in mind would do it for nothing. He grew up here," he says, flipping through the phone book. "He was a policeman. He worked in Missing Persons for many years. Here we go..." The priest runs his finger down the page headed "PRIVATE INVESTIGATION" to a listing that reads "FRANK IERO, FINDER OF HEIRS."


	2. Something Has Left My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has left my life  
> And I don't know where it went to.  
> Somebody caused me strife  
> And it's not what I was seeking.  
> Didn't you see me, didn't you hear me?  
> Didn't you see me standing there?  
> Why did you turn out the lights?  
> Did you know that I was sleeping?  
> Say a prayer for me.  
> Help to feel the strength I did.  
> My identity has been taken.  
> Is my heart breaking on me?  
> All my plans fell though my hands.  
> They fell though my hands on me.  
> In my obvious it suddenly seems  
> Empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Week's Chapter Is Based On The Song- "Empty" by Cranberries

               On the busy New York streets, a battered Trans Am beats out another car for the handicapped slot nearest a Trader Joe's Market. The driver gets out of the car and lights a cigarette. He was a simple kind of guy in his early thirties. The only thing that made him stick out from a crowd was his fringed hairstyle and short stature; but if you were to ask ten women if they thought he was good looking, seven would say yes.

               Inside the market, the man stops a clerk as he passes. "Kid Michael?"

               "Try the freezer," the clerk says before continuing with his work.

               In the freezer, Kid Michael sits on a stool, reading the bible. He had longer blonde hair, a long nose, and thick, black-framed glasses. Oblivious to the cold, he's wearing only a Joy Division t-shirt and a pair of shredded, black jeans. He doesn't look up at the man sticks his head inside. "Kid Michael?"

               "Fuck off, I'm on my break," Michael says, keeping his eyes on his book.

               "Michael, I've been retained by the law firm of Ross-Urie to find you and tell you that James Dewees died last month."

               "James Dewees?"

               "I'm very sorry," the man says, trying to act sincere.

               "Who the _fuck_ is James Dewees?"

               "He was a patient of yours."

               "Yeah, well, I had a lotta patients. Now you mind? I'm reading." With that, Michael turns back to his book.

               The man doesn't move, looking at him through a long, think exhale. "Well, this one left you eleven thousand dollars." Michael looks up again and the man takes out a notebook. "James Dewees. Professional Studio Musician. Lived in Liberty, Missouri with his wife Karen or Sharon..."

               Recognition sparks in Michael's eyes as he smiles. "Karen Dewees. Man, that was a long time ago. Ten years maybe. I always knew he was grateful, but Jesus, eleven thousand dollars. Hey, what's your name, _friend?_ "

               "Frank Iero," the man says, taking out a card and scribbling on it. "So, what? Did you save this guy's life or something?"

               "James was impotent. You imagine that? Man works with people who fuck for a living, can't get it up at home."

               "Well, James musta had one helluva hard-on when he made out his will," Frank says, handing Michael the card, but he ignores it.

               "Hey, fuckhead, I was a damn good shrink! I spent sixteen and a half years helping a lotta people work through a lotta shit. Sure, I slept with a patient or two, but back then, who didn't? Wasn't as if I didn't care. Hell, I never even charged half my patients. Then the fuckin' State goes and sends some bitch in undercover. Sarah fuckin' Em. It's just not fair," Michael says, his eyes going dark.

               "Yeah, well." Frank hands Michael the card. "Call Ross-Urie and set up an appointment to come in and sign the paperwork. They'll cut you a check for the eighty-eight hundred right there."

               "Eighty-eight hundred? What happened to eleven thousand?" Michael asked, his voice rising.

               "Eleven, less my commission."

               "Jesus Christ, Mr..." Michael looks at the card. "Iero. Who the hell you think you are, taking a twenty percent cut outta somebody's inheritance?"

               "Considering a minute ago you had dick and now you got eighty-eight hundred, I'd say Santa Claus."

               "It's not exactly eleven thousand though, is it, Santa?" Michael mumbled.

               "It's not exactly a wet sack a'shit either, Doctor Michael." Michael smiles, he can't help it.

               Suddenly, Frank's cell goes off. He pulls it from his pocket and looks at the caller I.D. "I gotta take this," he says, waving to Michael and leaving the freezer.

 

* * *

            Frank pulls up to Our Lady of Sorrows' and gets out of his car, eyeing the gates with the treble clef. As he enters the ground, he sees gang graffiti spray-painted on the outside wall.

 

* * *

               "Somewhere, someone is very worried about this man," the nun starts. Frank is sitting on a scrolled armchair, looking around the office. The priest and the sister from before are sitting across from him. "Father Patrick has suggested that, while he's in the hospital, you would search for his family."

               Frank is eyeing the priest now, an angry look on his face. "He also happen to suggest who'd pay for all this?"

               "I thought you might do us a favor. Out of your sense of charity," the priest says.

               "You mean my sense of humor, don't you, Pat? I mean, especially after the last favor I did for you..."

               "That was not my fault," The Father says, cutting Frank off.

               "You got a worse case of amnesia than the hobo upstairs."

               "He's not a--" The sister starts, only to be interrupted by Patrick.

               "That was not my fault, Frank. I thought the boy was in danger. I thought he might hurt himself. He left a note--"

               "That said 'Goodbye.' Period." Frank turns to the nun. "He said two days. Three tops. I spent _five weeks_ looking for this kid, only to find him camping in Belleville with some girl he met at St. Helena's."

               "He's not a hobo, Mr. Iero," the nun says finally.

               Frank looks at her; she's giving him the same firm, but imploring look she gave the priest. Frank finally sighs. "Okay, Sister. I'll give the man a lift to county hospital. And maybe on the way I'll stop and have a buddy a' mine at the times take his picture, run it in the morning paper. How's that sound?"

               The nun smiles. "That sounds better."

 

* * *

                Frank lights a cigarette and follows the nun up the steep staircase. "Since when do you let civilians stay upstairs?"

               "We have to keep him up here. He frightens the children," the nun says, looking back at Frank. "He screams in his sleep."

               "Yeah? Scary screams? Or, you know...happy, sexy screams?"

               "What difference does it make?" She gestures to a door, then starts down the hall.

               Frank smiles and enters the room. He walks to a wooden chair draped with the man's clothing.  First, he examines a single, fingerless glove with skeleton bones printed on it. Then, when he picks up his first, something drops to the floor. He bends down and picks up a small, gold ring. The front is formed by two hands holding a heart with a tiny crown and there's an imprint on the back that says the letter "G." Frank eyes the ring, then inspects the shirt; smells the material.

               Someone clears her throat and Frank looks up, terrified. The nun stands in the doorway beside the man with no name. He looks handsome; his hair is still wet from the shower and he's only wearing a towel around his waist.

               "I, uh...I was just checking the labels... y'know, to see if I could get a line on where he bought 'em."

               "And how did the labels smell, Mr. Iero?" the nun asks, smirking.

               "Expensive. The cologne, I mean." Frank moves to drop the man's clothing back onto the chair. He misses and they hit the floor in a pile. He extends his hand to the man with no name. "Frank Iero."

               He tentatively shakes Frank's hand.

               Frank smiles and holds up the gold ring. "This is a Claddaugh ring... an Irish wedding band. I knew a girl who used to wear one. Wear it with the crown facing up, means you're taken; crown down, means you're not." Frank hands the man the ring. "How were you wearing it?"

               The man with no name looks at the ring a long moment, then up at Frank. He doesn't know. Frank looks to the nun and she shakes her head. "The policeman had him take it off so that he could see it."

               "What about the other glove?"

               "He only had the one when we found him."

               Frank nods, watching at the man sits down on the bed and puts the ring on with the crown up. He then slowly looks up at Frank, his eyes holding the detective's with a quiet expression.

               "I'll go get him some extra clothes," the nun says before hurrying out of the room.

               Frank takes out his cigarettes and jerks a thumb at the door. "I'll be outside with the boys."

 

* * *

              The man with no name stares out the window as Frank drives through the city. Frank keeps looking over at him until the man sees him, forcing the detective to smile. "I gotta tell you, when the Sister said a screaming man with no memory, I pictured someone more--" Suddenly, the man looks past Frank and sits up in his seat. "What? What is it?" Excited now, the man points out the window. "You recognize something?"

               Frank pulls out in front of an old, worn town diner called The House of Wolves. He and the man with no name get out of the car and start to walk in. Frank casts a doubtful glance at the decrepit building. "This place?" He receives no answer as the man hurries for the entrance.

               It's dark and cavernous inside with only a few patrons mulling around. At the bar, an old bartender slips out of his daydream and gives Frank a tired nod as he enters a few paces ahead of the man with no name

               A group of worn and wrinkly regulars turn to watch as the man moves further into the long, unused dining room. Frank eyes the group, then follows. "You've been here before?"

               A door at the back opens and Mark, the white-haired geezer that owns the place, steps out of his office and into the restaurant, heading straight for the bathroom. "Tom, do me up a soda with bitters, wouldja?"

               The bartender slowly sets to work. The man with no name's eyes go wide and he hakes Frank's arm. "You know him?" he nods and Frank cuts Mark off at the bathroom. "Excuse me, can I talk to you a minute?"

               Mark shifts his feet and looks past Frank to the bathroom. "Can it wait? I got a real burner goin' here."

               "Just tell me if you know that man over there..."

               Mark takes a fast look at the man with no name. "Never seen him before in my life," he says before trying to get past Frank.

               "Take a good look. He says he knows you."

               Mark looks over at the bartender, who shrugs. "Who is he? Who are you?"

               Frank sees that the guy really doesn't know him and steps to the side. As Mark pushes past and disappears into the bathroom, Frank turns to the man with no name. He leans against the wall, crying, looking more lost than ever. Frank watches him a moment and takes him by the arm. "C'mon."

               As the man steps away from the wall, there's several dozen black and white 8X10's hanging there. A smiling, tuxedo-clad Alexzander Beyzar stands in one of the photos with the signature; "Mark, good luck on your new venture! A. Beyzar, 1946."

 

* * *

              "Smile, sweetheart," a man says as he pushes around a photo floating in developer. The faint image of the man with no name begins to appear. "That's a boy..." Pete Wentz, a small guy with nappy black hair, watches the photograph develop. He whistles every time he says a word with an "S" in it. "You really just gonna drop him off at County?" Pete asks as he watches the ray while the image fades in. He looks back at Frank, a credulous look on his face. "Why don't you take him home?"

               "He's not a stray dog, Pete," Frank says, rolling his eyes.

               "Yeah, and besides, you never take guys to your place anyway. They might mess with your guitars. 'Least with this one, you don't even have to forget his name. He's already done it for you!" Pete turns on the light, opens the door, and pauses. The man with no name is sitting outside Pete's cubicle. "Count to thirty, take him outta the fixer, and drop him into the dryer. I'll be out here writing the copy."

               Frank nods and slides off the counter. He looks into the tray and sees the picture floating in the solution. The man has the same quiet, almost pleading expression he had at Our Lady's.

               Black and white 8X10's of some of the century's grizzlier crime scenes cover the low walls of Pete's cubicle. Uncomfortable surrounded by such violence, the man with no name sits still, trying not to look at them.

               "You're in good hands," Pete assures as he sits down at his desk. He taps one of the photographs. "Frankie can find anything." The man with no name looks at a picture of several cops, including Frank, standing in a field, looking down at a body. "Pretty scary, eh? Not known' who y'are." Pete smiles. "Same thing happened to me once." The man sits up, attentive now as Pete takes out a legal pad. "Two years ago, mailman over in Trenton freaked out and cut up his entire family with a hedge trimmer...then, either 'cause he heard a voice or maybe just 'cause he felt bad, he cut off his own arms."

               Frank's eyes widen as he looks up from the photograph and to the cubicle. "Pete..."

               "Had to dial 9-1-1 with his nose..."

               "Pete!"

               "What?"

               "I just know there's a point to this," Frank says, staring daggers into his friend.

               "It's coming. See, I was the first shooter t'show up at the house. Took one look  and passed out cold, right there. Came to, I had no idea who I was. Didn't even know my own family. Scariest thing ever happened to me." Pete pauses and smiled down at his desk. "Then, one morning, I woke up and my little boy was standing beside the bed. He said, "I love you, daddy." Well...I just looked at him, and in about two seconds, my whole life came flooding back to me." Pete smiles as Frank walks over to them. "I was lucky. I'm sayin' I know what it's like. I know what you're goin' through. And I'm sayin', just hang in there. Sooner or later, it'll all come back. Scout's honor."

              

* * *

               Frank and the man with no name are riding in an elevator together. The man's wearing a wrist I.D. and is holding a folded hospital gown to his chest. "Look, my name and number are gonna be in the paper..."

               The man with no name stares at two cops and a spooky-looking woman in handcuffs. Her eyes are fixed on the man as she assiduously scratches her arm.

               "...So the minute somebody sees your picture, I'll come and get you."

               Frank and the man with no name watch as the handcuffed woman raises her hand to brush a stiff lock of hair from her face, streaking her forehead with blood. She's been scratching so hard she's bleeding. The lady smiles at Frank, then resumed the bloody grooving of her arm.

               "I'm thinking one night at the most," Frank says, a grim look on his face.

               Once they reach their floor, the doors open to reveal the loud, zoo-like Psych Ward. The two cops and the prisoner get off, leaving Frank and the man with no name standing by themselves. "That's my fucking cookie, bitch!" One woman yells at another before breaking into a violent fistfight. Frank looks at the ward, then back to the man with no name before pressing the "Close" button on the elevator navigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I know it's going along slowly but it's gonna start picking up majorly in the next chapter!


	3. Can You Hear Me Cry Out To You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear me cry out to you?   
> Words I thought I'd choke on, figure out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Week's Chapter Is Based On The Song- "This Is How I Disappear" by My Chemical Romance

               After deciding it better to take the man with no name home rather than leave him in the ward, Frank pulls in front of his old apartment and gets out. Once inside, Frank shuts the door behind his guest and looks around nervously. "Uh...I'm sure you'll think this is almost better than the ward." The man with no name nods and sits down on the couch in the middle of the room. Frank looks down at him for a moment, notices the hospital bracelet still on his wrist, and walks to an old desk.

               "But don't worry, you won't be stuck here too long," Frank says as he pulls out an old pair of scissors. Immediately, the man with no name stiffens as he sees the shears. "Someone's bound to see your picture and come an' pick you up." The man with no name closes his eyes as Frank bends down and snips off the hospital band. "You hungry?

               When he opens his eyes, the man with no name sees Frank smiling at him. He notices the plastic bracelet in his hand and relaxes. "You haven't had anything all day." The man shakes his head, an appreciate look on his face. "Well, if ya get hungry, the fridge's right in there," Frank says, pointing through a doorway to the kitchen. Frank steps towards the hallway and jerks a thumb towards a closed door. "Bedroom's in there."

               The man with no name looks at a shelf full of old framed photographs before getting up and walking into the bedroom. In the spare room, there's more old photographs lined along the walls. The man looks at them as Frank tidy’s up and gestures about the room. "Closet's there; bathroom's there. The bottom drawer of the dresser has some old sweatshirts and stuff to sleep in." The man turns and runs his hand along the back of an antique chair, nodding as he listens to Frank. "Beautiful, isn't it? The desk and highboy in the living room are from the same period."

               They both stand still for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. "Well...goodnight," Frank says before leaving the room. The man with no name immediately closes the door behind him and blocks it with the antique chair.

               Frank walks into the living room and looks back at the door for a moment, shakes his head, then mimics himself. "The desk and the highboy are from the same period." He then smacks himself on the forehead with his palm, hating how awkward he gets. "What an asshole." Groaning, he falls backwards onto the couch.

               The man with no name walks to Frank’s dresser and opens a drawer, pulling out a NYPD sweatshirt. He cuts a fast glance at the door, and then smells the sweater.

               Hours after the couple fall asleep; the man with no name suddenly sits up and grabs his throat. He screams even louder and Frank throws himself against the blocked door, desperate to get in. Once he finally manages to get the chair out of the way, he bursts into the room, panicked. "Hey...what's---who's--" He glances around to make sure nobody's attacking his guest. The man with no name recoils as Frank tries to put his arm around him. "It's okay, it's alright...it's just me," Frank whispers as he holds onto the man, starting to gently rock him. "It's just me."

               The man with no name slowly closes his eyes and as Frank lays him back down on the bed. He slowly stands up when he sees his guest falling back to sleep. Then, like a concerned parent, he fixes the chair beside the bed and sits in it, keeping his eyes on the sleeping man the entire time.

 

* * *

               The next morning, a man named Robert Bryar stands outside Frank's apartment, looking at it with an odd expression. He is of average height, with grey hair, and a dark linen suit. He tucks his folded newspaper under his arm and heads into the building.

               Meanwhile, Frank sits in a chair by the window, writing the word "Disher" over and over, playing with the spelling each time. "Hey, pal, I don't gotta tell you anything. Instead, how 'bout you tell me what his ring looks like?"

               The man with no name sits on the couch, looking at the newspaper article with his picture. He looks up from the paper expectantly. "Coiled serpent...skull and crossbones... matches the tattoo. Right. Thanks for calling, Ballato," Frank says before hanging up the phone. "The entire female population of New York has checked in this morning. This is better than online dating."

               Just then, a voice comes from outside the apartment door. "Anybody home?" Frank runs to open the door and sees Bryar standing in the doorway. He runs a hand through a head of long, wavy, grey hair.

               "Can I help you?" Frank asks.

               "Actually, I'm here to help you, Mr. Iero," Bryar says before stepping inside and setting his newspaper down on the desk.

               "Yeah? And who're you supposed to be? His grandfather?"

               "No, I'm not his grandfather. Nor am I his grandmother, for that matter. In fact, I'm of no relation at all. My name's Robert Bryar," the man says before offering his hand. Frank nods suspiciously and shakes the stranger's hand. Robert looks around the room, eyeing the old furniture. "Now that's a handsome chair. Heywood Wakefield if I'm not mistaken. I'll give you forty-five dollars for it right now."

               "It's a Brown and Saltman and it's worth two-fifty. What can I do for you, Mr. Bryar?" Frank says, annoyance evident in his tone.

               "A glass of water would be lovely. You're elevator's broken and the long climb wore me out," Bryar says as he sits down, taking Frank's place next to the man with no name. He takes the man's hand and looks only at him as he speaks. His voice is low and mellifluous. "I see cases like this all the time. A person experiences something traumatic and they want to erase it from their mind," Bryar pauses and smiles. "Trouble is, they erase everything else along with it."

               The man with no name looks to Frank as Bryar begins gently stroking his hand. Frank glares at the two as he fills a glass of water at the sink. "So, what are you? A shrink?"

               "Not exactly," Bryar answers. "I'm a hypnotist."

               Frank nods and hands the hypnotist the glass. "Here's the water...there's the door. Sorry 'bout the elevator."

               Bryar takes a drink and smiles oddly. "Tastes a bit like bourbon." He sets the glass down and continues stroking the man's hand. "It's simply a matter of regressing the young man back to a happier time and then asking him who he is." Bryar locks eyes with the man and continues to stroke his hand...his eyes start to flutter. "Your hand is very light, my dear. So light that I'm afraid if I were to let go of it, it would just...float upward on its own." Just then, Bryar lets go of the man's hand and it slowly rises.

               "Hey! Who gave you permission to-"

               "Shh...he's all right," Bryar says to make Frank quiet. "I want you to continue to relax, my dear, and tell yourself that you're going into a deeper and deeper state of hypnosis." Frank watches as the man's shoulders begin to slump. "That's it...that's right...very nice," Bryar says, smiling. "Now let's go back...and tell me, dear, has something happened to--"

               Suddenly, the man with no name bolts upright and screams, "Somebody help me!" Then, silence. He stands there, eyes wide, trembling. Frank and Bryar stare in amazement.

               "Is he still under?" Frank asks.

               "No..."

               Frank takes the man's hand and gently pulls him back to the couch. "What did you see? What made you scream?" The man blinks a few times, unable to answer. Frank sits back and sighs in frustration.

               "At least we know you can speak. Quiet well in fact. How do you feel?"

               And then, for the first time, the man with no name smiles and Frank stares at him, taken aback by his sudden change.

               "I'd say he feels better. Splendid," Bryar says before standing up and handing Frank a card. "If you like, you can come by my shop tomorrow afternoon and we can try again. We'll need several hours and I think the surrounding there--"

               Frank eyes the card and cuts Bryar off. "Look, you did a good job. He spoke. I'm thrilled. Really," he says, handing the card back to the older man. "But I don't have the money to--"

               "It will cost you nothing, Mr. Iero." Frank watches, annoyed, as Bryar pokes around his desk, picks up the man's stray glove, and absently rubs the under-side of his chin with it. "I'll deal with his family when we find them. I'm sure they'll find my services invaluable. Once they realize I'm the one who reunited them with their...Son, husband, or...whomever." He sets the glove on the desk and turns to leave. "Good day, all."

               Later that night, Frank walks past the doorway to the bathroom as the man with no name washes his long hair in the sink. He backs up, and watches him for a moment. The man with no name straightens up, and catches Frank standing there. Frank finally gestures to the back of the man's head. "You missed some." The man looks in the mirror and Frank moves closer. "Put your head down."

               The man puts his head back in the sink and Frank reaches in and starts rinsing his hair, very gently at first, just barely touching him, he rubs the man's scalp, causing him to close his eyes. A minute later, Frank finally, reluctantly, stops. He stands there, his hands buried in his guest's hair, staring thoughtfully at the back of his head. Frank backs away from the sink as the man straighten up and faces him. "I'll uh, I'll get you a towel."

               After the man with no name is in best, Frank lies on the couch smoking, staring up at the ceiling. He sits up on an elbow and looks at the closed bedroom door, imagining the man behind it. He can't help but think of his inky black hair and light hazel eyes. "Fuck," Frank thinks, "The one time I get a man in my bed and he can't remember who he is. Good going, Iero." Finally, he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and lays down to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review


	4. Long Ago And Oh So Far Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long ago and oh so far away,
> 
> I fell in love with you before the second show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Week's Chapter Is Based On The Song- "Superstar" by Carpenters

               The next day, Frank and the man with no name show up at an old, hidden away shop with a hanging sign that reads, "Robert Bryar's Dead Pegasus Antique Shop." As they walk up to the building, a sign in the front window says, "ONLY THOSE WITH A POSTURE TO BUY." Frank rings the bell and a buzzer sounds as they are allowed entry to the shop.

               The place is dark, jammed floor to ceiling with pricey old relics. Frank and the man with no name head for the back in search of anyone else. "Bryar?" Frank catches his coat on the side of a small statue, almost knocking it over. He steps back and examines a three foot tall bronze horse with a ten thousand dollar price tag. Written on the tag is the name, "The Dead Pegasus."

               To the side, Frank hears Bryar's voice; "You were inside President Roosevelt's office?"

               A young girl's voice answers, "Yes, frequently. My mother was his cook. We were like family."

               Frank exchanges looks with the man with no name, pulls his coat free, and walks to the back of the store. As he peers through a doorway, he sees Bryar with a legal pad in his lap, facing an old woman under hypnosis. The woman stares at a candle mounted atop a brass stand. "I used to sit on Uncle Teddy's lap. I liked that."

               "As I'm sure Uncle Teddy did too," Bryar responds. "Now, Mrs. Freeman, against the south wall of the office was a desk; Lacquered mahogany with solid brass hardware and the initials "TR" engraved into the top. Do you remember it?"

               "Yes, I remember."

               "Good. Now, I want you to think back...what did President... What did Uncle Teddy do with it?"

               "Uncle Teddy broke it. He and John Muir were wrestling in the office."

               "What happened to the desk?"

               "He gave it to... he gave it to... he gave it to Emily Maxwell, his personal secretary."

               "And where did Mrs. Maxwell retire?"

               "With her son in Bozeman, Montana," the woman says, remembering.

               Bryar scribbles in the file as he quickly wraps up. "Alright, Mrs. Freeman, I'm going to count to three, at which point you will be wide awake and refreshed, yet remember nothing of our little discussion. One. Two. Three."

               Instantly, the old woman opens her eyes and smiles at Bryar. "How'd I do?"

               "Just fine. I don't think you'll have any more of those silly chocolate cravings."

               "Thank you, Mr. Bryar," the woman says as she writes a check and passes it to the hypnotist.

               "Thank you, Mrs. Freeman."

               Frank steps back as Bryar ushers the old woman out of the office. He gives Bryar a look that says, "Nice racket." Bryar ignores the look and simply smiles at the man with no name. "And you look great this morning," he says as he ushers the man into to room. Frank reluctantly follows, stepping towards the back of the office.

               The man with no name sits down as Bryar pours his-self some water from a crystal pitcher on his desk. He looks off, listening to the sound of some game show. "Mother, would you turn that down, please?" Instantly, the sound of a door closing echoes through the shop. Bryar then lights a candle, and smiles at the man with no name. "I thought that today, since this is our first real session, we'd just go for an hour or so." The man nods and Bryar sits down in his chair. "Now as soon as you're comfortable, I want you to take a look at the candle in front of you. I want you to stare at it. That's it. Keep staring at it... just let yourself relax... that's right... you may even feel your eyes start to close."

               As he says this, the man with no name's eyes flutter shut, his breathing slowly down significantly. "I want you to picture yourself walking down a flight of stairs. With each step, you'll relax still further. As you go down, I want you to tell yourself 'I am going deeper into a state of hypnosis.'" Frank stifles a yawn and straightens up, trying to pay attention. "Since yesterday you became a bit excited. Today, I want you to distance yourself from the events you're watching... as if you're only a witness, not an actual participant. Understand?" The man with no name simply nods. "And if you see any nice relics or objects d'art along the way, you might just mention that too..."

               "Oh, for Christ--" Frank starts.

               "Shh. Now, at the bottom of the stairs I want you to picture a door. This door is very important. For just beyond it lies whatever time or place from your life we wish to visit. So from now on, whenever I speak, the phrase, "The door has opened," you will immediately relax into a comfortable hypnotic state. Do you understand?"

               "Yes," the man with no name says, very quietly, his voice hoarse and slightly high-pitched.

               "Good. Now, this afternoon, we're going to visit a very happy, relaxed time... perhaps the happiest day of your entire life." Bryar pauses and eyes the man for a moment, then leans forward. "Alright, then. The door has opened. You can speak, my dear. What was the happiest--"

               "The day we first met," the man with no name interrupts, completely hypnotized.

               "Distance yourself," Bryar says.

               "The day... Alexzander and Jonathan first met."

               "Jonathan?" Frank says, earning a warning glare from Bryar as he takes out a pad.

               "That's right," the man says in a monotone voice.

               "Jonathan who?"

               "Mr. Iero--" Bryar growls.

               "Beyzar," the man with no name answers.

               Bryar coughs and pours himself a drink of water from the crystal pitcher. He gives Frank a look that says, "I told you so." Frank ignores the look and grabs a phone book off Bryar's desk, beginning to go through it.

               "Right." Bryars says, getting back on subject. "Let's go back to the day Jonathan and Alexzander first me... how far back are you? Two years? Three years? A year?"

               "It was 1948."

               "Okeedokee," Frank sighs, closing the phone book. "I think I've heard enough."

               "Mr. Iero, I must ask you to refrain from talking during the session," Bryar snaps.

               "The man just told us he met a guy named Alexzander in 1948. I say the session's over."

               "On occasion, hypnosis can sometimes take us into our past lives as well as our past."

               "And you expect me to just run with that?"

               "Let me remind you, Mr. Iero, that yesterday this young man wasn't even speaking."

               "Duke Ellington was playing that night..." The man with no name continues.

               Both men look at each other and Bryar sits back down. "Wait for me, my dear. When was this?"

               "Winter of 1948," the man answers, causing Frank to sit down as well. "Alexzander was filling in for the bassist that night. Jonathan was given a great opportunity that night, a duet with the great Duke."

 

* * *

**Winter, 1948**

               A downtown club in New York is half full. On stage, Alexzander Beyzar stands to the left of famous musician Duke Ellington, his back to the crowd. Jonathan Beyzar stands on the other side of Ellington, singing into the same mic as him. Alexzander keeps glancing at Jonathan as he plays his heart out. He can't help but notice the way Jonathan keeps brushing a stay lock of hair from his forehead.

               Everyone in the band plays with a fearful intensity. As famous as Duke Ellington's band is, they know not to piss Alexzander off. Everyone plays to the book, that is, except for Jonathan Beyzar, who winks and trips his own tie off, causing Alexzander to almost drop his pick.

               Once the concert is over, a storm starts pouring rain on the crowds as they leave the club. Umbrellas open all at once as the people spill out of the building. Alexzander stands by the entrance with several socialites. "Do you miss Germany?" one younger woman asks the musician.

               Alexzander watches at Jonathan exits the building and steps happily out into the rain. Several people hurry over to him, pressing for autographs. "Not anymore. Would you all excuse me?" Alexzander says, moving towards the small crowd.

               A young woman with a trumpet case walks over to Jonathan and kisses him on the cheek. They share a joke. She obviously likes him. A cab pulls up and the woman opens the door for him. Another kiss and the girl moves on. Alexzander steps up just as Jonathan's about to get in, indicates the young man. "You strip for the trumpet player, too?"

               "Sometimes," Jonathan says as he stats to get in the cab. Alexzander takes his arm, stopping him.

               "And I thought I was special."

               "Little shorter maybe," Jonathan retorts.

               Alexzander eyes him a beat, then gives the cabdriver a few bills. "Thank you anyway." He then closes the door to the cab and turns to Jonathan, who watches as the cab takes off without him.

               "What if I was meeting someone?"

               "I'd hate to see you rendezvous on an empty stomach," Alexzander says, smiling.

               A few minutes later, they're at The House Of Wolves. The place is jumping. Searchlights play across the clouds as the diner's well-dressed patrons spill out of black limousines. The jazz band croons from the back corner. The loud noises skip a beat as Alexzander and Jonathan enter the diner together. "Hello, Hello!" Mark, sixty years younger, and looking more like a mobster than a maître d' shouts as he rushes over to them. To Alexzander's instant irritation, he's all over Jonathan like a rash. "So nice to see you... love to watch you sing... you're welcome here anytime... take a look," he says as he points to the stage. "New sound equipment! Cost me four grand!"

               "Very nice," Jonathan says, brushing Mark off.

               After the couple are rushed into a booth, they notice that patrons keep looking over at them, at Jonathan specifically. Alexzander watches him as the waiter pours their champagne and disappears. Jonathan reaches for his glass, almost knocking it over. Alexzander raises his own. "To Jonathan, a man with more talent than grace."

               "Sorry," Jonathan mumbles, embarrassed. He goes to take a drink and notices Alexzander frowning at him. "What is it?"

               Alexzander reaches over and brushes the offending lock of hair from Jonathan's forehead. "I was just wondering who cuts your hair."

               "I do it myself."

               "Maybe you should stick to singing," Alexzander teases.

               Jonathan self-consciously runs a hand through his hair. "You're the first guy who's mentioned it."

               "Out of how many men?" Jonathan stumbles at the question and Alexzander ignores it as he reaches across the table. "My housekeeper taught me how to read palms." Jonathan eyes him for an instant, then slides his hand across the table. Alexzander considers it a moment then says, "Not much of a lifeline, I'm afraid."

               "How depressing. Especially if I believed this stuff," Jonathan says, laughing.

               "Ah, but wait. I do see love. Passionate, everlasting love."

               "This work on a lot of guys?" Jonathan asks.

               "I'll let you know," Alexzander smirks.

               "So then I don't really have a short lifeline?"

               "I have no idea. I just like holding your hand," Alexzander says, smiling. he doesn't let go; which is completely fine with Jonathan.

               Mark walks over and says something to the band, who nods, and starts to play a soft intro. Mark grabs the mic, "Good evening, favorite people. Just thought I'd remind you that we do have a dance floor." There's a short applause and Mark starts to sing "Where Or When."

               Alexzander looks at Jonathan as he watches couples file out onto the dance floor. He turns back to Alexzander and forces a smile. "Shall we?" Alexzander asks, offering his hand. He stands and Jonathan hesitates, then follows him out onto the dance floor. They begin to dance as Mark sings.

               "When you're awake, the things you think come from the dream you dream. Thought has wings, and lots of things are seldom what they seem."

               As the evening unfolds, Alexzander and Jonathan talk, laugh, then get more and more serious as fewer and fewer couples remain on the dance floor. Until, finally, they are the only two people left, dancing dangerously close. The band finishes playing, packs up, and gives them a sheepish look.

               Alexzander and Jonathan stop dancing and reluctantly back away from each other. The staff stares at them with polite smiles they say "We enjoyed serving you, now leave." Alexzander looks to the bar, where Mark, his tie loosened, sits counting cash. he looks up, waves, and resumes counting.

               "Seems we forgot to order dinner," Alexzander says, laughing lightly.

               "Just so happens I know a place that has fresh seafood."

               "At this hour?"

               "Just follow me," Jonathan says, leading the way out of the diner.

               A while later, Alexzander and Jonathan stomp around on Brighton Beach.

               "The clams squirt out've the sand when you step on them. That's where you have to start digging. Look, I got one!" Jonathan says excitedly. Alexzander walks over as Jonathan drops to his knees and starts digging. "I heard you were married."

               "I was. She's dead," Alexzander answers.

               "How'd she die?"

               "To escape Germany we had to go through the mountains. It was a difficult trip and she had a weak heart."

               "Then why go at all?" Jonathan asks, his face turned in a grimace.

               "It wasn't my idea."

               "She must have loved you very much. I'm sorry."

               Alexzander simply looks at Jonathan for a moment, then leans over to kiss him. Jonathan backs away and Alexzander studies him for a moment, then sits up and tilts his head back. "It's raining again. I should find you a cab. Get you home."

               "I lied to you," Jonathan says abruptly. Alexzander looks over at him, startled. "I never stripped for the trumpet player." He turns away, shyly. "I've never stripped for anybody before." This time he turns to Alexzander, leans over, and kisses him slowly and passionately.

               As the rain started coming down harder, Alexzander hurries Jonathan into his Packard and drives to his mansion. Mounted in the center of his high front gates is a wrought iron Treble Clef. They park in front of the house and get out and run to the front door.

               Inside Alexzander's house, a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates the room. Alexzander unlocks the door and the two hurry inside. Alexzander turn on the light and Jonathan self-consciously brushes the water from his face. "I'm soaked. I must look a mess."

               "You look fine," Alexzander says, looking at him, causing Jonathan to smile as he looks around the room.

               "Oh, Alexzander, this is incredible."

               "Thank you." Jonathan moves to the table and picks up a grotesque looking black mask. "It's for a song I'm working on."

               "You're writing a song about a monster?"

               "Almost. It's about jealousy. About how sometimes it makes us two people."

               "What about you? Are you the jealous type?" Jonathan asks, observing the mask.

               "I suppose I have my moments." Alexzander walks over and takes the mask from Jonathan's hand and looks him in the eyes.

               "What a gorgeous guitar," Jonathan says as he walks to the black acoustic guitar at the back of the room. He examines the sheet music written in ink that rests on the stand. "This from your song?"

               "Mhmm," Alexzander says, moving towards his guest.

               Jonathan plays four notes, repeats them, then turns to Alexzander. "I'm not much of a guitarist, but, this is rather brief, isn't it?"

               "Like I said, I'm working on it."

               Jonathan nods and stars to play a few chords from "Where Or When," while singing quietly. Alexzander sits down on the bench beside him and watches Jonathan as he plays. His hands begin to move with Jonathan's as he embellishes the piece. After a moment, they both stop playing. A drop of water hits the frets...then another. Soon, they're kissing and Alexzander puts his arms around Jonathan.  Alexzander then picks Jonathan up and carries him over to the couch. Jonathan runs his hand along the material as they lie down. "We'll ruin it," he says out of breath.

               "I'll get another one," Alexzander whispers as he goes to kiss his lover again.


	5. To The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you marry me,  
> Would you bury me?  
> Would you carry me to the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Week's Chapter Is Based On The Song- "To The End" by My Chemical Romance

               The next happy memory the man with no name begins to describe is that of the wedding for Alexzander and Jonathan. It's a beautiful day, sunny and the perfect temperature. The wedding is being held at Alexzander's estate and there are several long tables of food set up. Servants stand at the ready, there's a flower-lined aisle with well-dressed guests on either side, many of them in tears. At the end of the aisle are Alexzander and Jonathan standing with a priest. As the priest closes the Bible, Alexzander feverishly grabs Jonathan and kisses him. Even though they were not legally married, they were pronounced as such in front of their closest friends and that meant just as much. It was a private affair by selective invitation only, but press managed to sneak their way in.

               Sarah Em, a severely hated gossip columnist, and Ray Toro enter the grounds through the side gates. "I'm already yawning, Sarah," Ray complains.

               "We'll stay five minutes."

               Toro takes a glass of champagne from a passing servant and prices the surroundings. He stops Alexzander and Jonathan as they greet their guests. Toro can't keep his eyes off of Jonathan. Toro elbows Sarah as Jonathan steps away. "Introduce me."

               "I thought you wanted to leave?"

               "I changed my mind."

               Jamia, the tall head housekeeper, inspects the settings at one of the tables. With her hard face and hair pulled back tight, she looks young and old at the same time. Her son, Georgie, a pale, frail fourteen-year-old, helps her. She gives him a piece of candy from the small pewter box she wears as a pendant. Jonathan walks tentatively up to the table. "Jamia, I was just upstairs."

               "Yes?"

               Jonathan shifts uncertainly. "Well, it's just that I thought... I mean, we had talked about you and Georgie moving into the guest room downstairs."

               "Alexzander never said anything to me," Jamia says, defensive.

               Jonathan stiffens and Georgie smiles at him. Jonathan looks at the two of them and realizes that now is the time to establish himself in the household. "What Mr. Beyzar said or didn't say if irrelevant. You and I have already discussed this. Now, tonight of all nights, I would appreciate it if you and Georgie were not sleeping in the next room."

               "Yes, Mr. Jonathan."

               "C-congratulations, M-Mr. Jonathan," Georgie stutters.

               "Thank you, Georgie," Jonathan says uncomfortably.

               Georgie's smile fades to a glare as Jonathan marches off. Sarah, Ray Toro in tow, cuts him off. "Mr. Beyzar, may I present Raymond Toro."

               "How d'you do?" Jonathan says as he shakes the stranger's hand.

               "Mr. Toro just made the list for this year's Pulitzer Prize," Sarah boasts.

               "Congratulations."

               "Congratulations yourself," Ray says, unable to take his eyes off of Jonathan.

               "So... any new tidbits from the press?" Jonathan asks to fill the awkward silence.

               "Zero. Tell you the truth, Mr. Beyzar, I miss the war."

               Jonathan blinks, taking offense to Ray's statement. "What an...odd thing to say."

               "Doesn't seem to be much news anymore... all this back-to-normal stuff. The world's become boring again." This causes Jonathan to smile, evoking a long stare from Ray. "Only thing I regret is that by being away so long, I missed my chance to hear you perform."

               "I'm not going into hiding, Mr. Toro. I'm just getting married." When Ray does nothing but stare at him, Jonathan extends his hand politely. "A pleasure meeting you."

               "Likewise," Ray says, regretful to release Jonathan's hand. After a moment, Jonathan pulls away and goes to speak to other guests.

               Later that night, Jonathan sits in a chair near the window, looking over the garden as he sketches. He turns around as he hears music coming from somewhere in the house. "Alexzander?"

               Once he realizes he's alone on the upper floor, Jonathan stands up and follows the music into the main sitting room. He sees Alexzander sitting, guitar in hand, his back to the doorway. "Alexzander? What are you--"

               Alexzander sets his guitar down and quickly turns to face his husband, startling him. "These are for you," he says darkly as he thrusts a bouquet of black tulips at Jonathan.

               "Oh... how pretty," Jonathan comments as he takes the bouquet. He freezes once he realizes they're bound at the stem by an exquisite looking necklace. "My God, Alex... I've never seen anything like this." He pauses as he gently slides the necklace off and observes it. The chain is pure silver, with a circular drop cage holding a single red ruby inside of it. "It's stunning. I don't know what to say..."

               "'Thank you,' is always good," Alexzander laughs.

               "Thank you," Jonathan whispers before kissing his lover.

               "Here, turn around, let me put it on you."

               Jonathan turns and sits on the nearby piano bench. "You know you can't reach my neck if I'm standing," he teases.

               "Thanks for being so considerate. You know, this is quite old," Alexzander says as he stars to unhook the clasp. "The man I bought it from explained to me that when a man gives this to the person he loves, they become two halves of the same person. Nothing can separate them. Not even death."

               Jonathan becomes slightly uncomfortable as he lets the word "death" just hang there for a moment. He smiles tentatively. "So, we're stuck with each other?"

               Alexzander smirks and puts the necklace around Jonathan's neck. "Either that, or I've overpaid terribly for the thing."

               Jonathan laughs and wraps his arms around Alexzander's neck once the necklace is in place and kisses him. The piano sounds a loud CLANG as he rests an arm on the keyboard. Jonathan runs his hand down Alexzander's thigh as he kisses him more passionately.

               "...Three...two...one." The sound of Bryar's voice draws the man with no name out of his trance and out of describing what he was recalling. Suddenly, Bryar snaps his fingers and the man with no name blinks himself awake to see Frank and the hypnotist watching him expectantly. He looks from one to the other, but doesn't speak.

               Frank sighs, sits back, and unbuttons his shirt. "...hot in here."

               "Mother? Could you open a window for us, please?" Bryar calls out. The man with no name silently watches at Frank rubs the back of his neck soothingly. "Well, this is not as uncommon as one might think. Just last month a colleague of mine up in San Francisco had the same thing--"

               "Can I have a glass of water?" The man with no name asks quietly.

               Frank and Bryar stare at the man with no name for a moment before speaking. "You've found your tongue, my boy. That's wonderful!"

               Frank immediately rushes to the man with no name and asks, "Do you know your name?" The man thinks hard, but can't find the answer.

               "Give him time, Mr. Iero," Bryar says as he pours a glass of water from the pitcher.

               Frank watches as the man with no name drinks it all down at once. "Do you remember anything at all?"

               The man starts to speak, clutches his throat for a moment, then shakes his head, speaking in a voice as thin as his wrist. "No," he pauses to clear his throat. "Do re me fa so la ti do." Frank and Bryar exchange looks and the man coughs again. "Excuse me."

               "What about those people you were talking about? Do you know them? If they're still around, maybe I--"

               "I'd like to show you something," Bryar interrupts and smiles before taking the man's hand. He leads them to a dark corner where old magazines are stacked floor to ceiling according to year. Frank and the man with no name stand there considering each other in the dim light of the shop. "Here we go..." Bryar finally located the magazine he's looking for and pulls it from the stack. "June, 1948."

               They follow Bryar to a table where he opens an old "Life" magazine, turns to a spread on such German expatriots as Thomas Mann, Berolt Brecht, and... "This was Alexzander Beyzar. This was his partner, Jonathan," Bryar explains as he points to a photograph of Alexzander Beyzar and his new husband, Jonathan. They're both standing in front of the gates with the Treble Clef. "And this was their home." The man with no name can't take his eyes off of the photograph. "Handsome, wasn't he? Not at all the sort of man who'd murder the one he loves."

               This grabs the man with no name's attention and he looks up at Bryar. "He stabbed Jonathan in the throat with a lovely pair of antique, silver-plated... Die Schere barber scissors," Bryar explains.

               "Disher," Frank says, looking to the man with no name.

               "They were just auctioned for seventy thousand at Christies last year... to a Japanese gentleman if memory serves."

               The man with no name turns back to the wedding photograph. "They seemed so in love..."

               "Yeah, well, those are the people that usually kill each other," Frank intervenes. "Look, could he possibly be dreaming? Or maybe at some point, he read about these people--"

               "I was getting clarity that goes far beyond what one would pick up from simply reading something," Bryar states.

               "I don't believe he was there."

               "It doesn't matter whether or not you believe anything, Mr. Iero. For whatever reason, these events are consuming him. The sooner we work through them, the sooner he'll get his memory back." Bryar eyes them both for a moment, then pulls a leather bound book from his coat, licks his thumb, and flips through it. "Let's see, tomorrow I have a Friars luncheon at noon... how's two o'clock tomorrow sound?"

               Frank tucks the magazine under his arm, and starts for the door. "Thank you," the man with no name whispers as Bryar smiles and shakes his hand.

               "My pleasure. Oh, and Mr. Iero?" Frank pauses and Bryar smiles, pointing to the magazine. "The magazine is seventeen-ninety-five."

               After paying, Frank and the man with no name exit the shop on foot. He looks at the would-be-stranger for a moment. "Are you okay? I mean, is there anything you need right now?"

               "You mean, besides my memory?" the man quips.

               Frank stares at him, then speaks. "I'm not used to your voice. It's like one day you wake up and your dog talks to you." The man with no name looks offended and Frank realizes what he just said. "I mean, for the last two days you've just been so quiet. I--nevermind." Frank looks away, rolling his eyes. _'I'm such a moron.'_

               "Mr. Iero?"

               "Frank."

               "Why are you helping me?" the man asks, his eyes full of question.

               "I dunno. You smell good, got nice hair." The man frowns and looks away. "I don't know why," Frank explains. "Maybe I feel sorry for you. Maybe I like you. Then again, maybe I just wanna see how the story you told in there ends."

               "But you don't believe any of that."

               "I believe you just experienced something pretty weird. I'm just not convinced that it means what he says it means."

               "You think I'm crazy?

               Frank pauses and thinks for a moment. "I think we need a second opinion."

               "I'm not going back to that hospital."

               Frank opens the car door for the man with no name. "You don't have to. Not as long as I’m around."

               “Maybe I better keep you around then, huh?”

               Frank laughs nervously and hops in the driver’s seat before taking off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review. I feel as if no one is reading this :/


	6. The Jetset Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pull the plug.  
> But, I'd like to learn your name.  
> And holding on.  
> Well, I hope you do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Week's Chapter Is Based On The Song- "To The End" by My Chemical Romance

               A few hours later, Frank and the man with no name are following Kid Michael through Trader Joe's. "Sounds to me like he had a past life experience," Michael says as he stocks shelves as he passes them.

               "Ahh, and you said you were good," Frank mocks.

               "Hey, I used to think it was bullshit, too. But every now and then it happens." Michael glances about the store and takes the two aside. "One time, I had this patient, an older lady with a severe case of claustrophobia. I mean, this lady'd get on a bus and start to choke," Michael pauses and begins moving about the store, straightening various displays, clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to talk about his first love. "I figure, I'm dealin' with some kind of childhood trauma, so I decide to treat her with hypnotherapy... y'know, regress her back to when she was a kid. See what turns up. Well, sure enough, during like our third session, I find out that when she was five, she was molested in a closet by her uncle. Guy forced her to do all kinds of stuff you don't wanna hear about. I immediately think 'this is it.' We deal with it in therapy for a few months, but nothing happens. She's still claustrophobic. I'm like, what the fuck? So, I regress her again. Go back even further. But this time when I ask her what year it is, she was 1832. Ben, what's this?" Michael reaches to the side and grabs a young clerk by the ear and shoves his nose up against a shelf full of cans.

               "Looks like canned peaches..." the clerk replies.

               "How many times I gotta tell you, numbnuts? High mark-up items go at eye level; love mark-up items, on the floor. You got that?"      

               "Yes, Dr. Michael."

               The man with no name exchanges an uncomfortable look with the clerk as Michael releases him and resumes his tour of duty.

               "Where was I?"

               "1832," Frank says, wanting to move things along.

               "Now, I hear that and I'm like, right, lady--blow me. But then she starts in with about how her father's an undertaker... about how her older brother likes to lock her up in the coffins... about how one day he does it and forgets about her for a few hours. Maybe it was bullshit; maybe it wasn't. All I know is, after that session, she wasn't claustrophobic anymore. You know more people in this world believe in past lives than don't?"

               "I'm sure that makes him feel a lot better," Frank says, shaking his head. "Look, this guy screams in his sleep. Today. Right now. I don't care who he was. His problem's bigger than that. All I'm asking is for you or someone to put him under and have him say, 'My name is blank.'"

               Michael stops walking and eyes the man with no name closely. "Do you believe that what you saw was real?"

               "It seemed real," the man responds.

               "Then stick with the junk dealer. Sounds to me like he's on the right track. The theory is, that sometimes a trauma in this life can take us back to a trauma in the last one. Resolve the old one and chances are you'll also find out who you are. See, it takes skill to live life. And like any skill, you practice enough times and you're gonna get real good at it. Take what you learned from this life and apply it to the next one. That’s karma."

               "I thought karma was I do something bad in this life, I'm a termite in the next one," Frank retorts.

               "Ask me, Mr. Twenty percent, you're already a termite in this one. But then, that's transmigration, not reincarnation."

               "What good is learning anything, if you're going to be with different people each time?" the man with no name asks.

               "But that's what I'm trying to tell you; you're not with different people. Thanks to fate, the only cosmic force with a sense of humor, you keep meeting the same creeps over and over again. Which means, you burn somebody, they're gonna get the chance to burn you back. Over and over. It's the Karma Credit Plan. Buy now; pay forever." Michael pauses and checks his watch. "Any more questions? I got a truck full of cat food waiting out back."

               "Uh, no. Thanks a lot," Frank mumbles as he leads the man with no name out of the store.

               As soon as they made it back to Frank's apartment, the man with no name went to relax in the bathtub. He sat in the warm water, looking at the old Life magazine, analyzing the photograph of Alexzander and Jonathan Beyzar. As he lifts an arm from the water, a droplet of something red drops onto the white page, and runs down the length of the photograph. The man with no name looks up to the mirror and gasps at the reflection. The tub is full of blood. As he splashes awake in the tub, Frank's voice calls out. "Red Okay?"

               The man with no name jerks his head around to the door. "What?" he asks as he looks down at the water. It's clear. It was only a nightmare.

               Frank leans against the closed door from the other side. "I asked if you liked red wine."

               "Oh. Good question," the man says as he stares at the photograph, then up at his own, yet still unfamiliar, reflection. "Tell me something, Frank. Why is it I can recognize certain smells, or that I know my right hand from my left, but I can't remember what my favorite color is? Or my favorite movie? Or what kind of wine I life?"

               "Maybe you're lucky."

               "Lucky? How so?"

               "I was just thinking there must be a certain freedom that goes with living only in the present tense. 'Least you don't have to spend every day trying to forget your past." The man with no name looks off as someone knocks at the front door. "Excuse me."

               Frank closes the bedroom door behind him and heads for the front room. Something is boiling on the stove and the table is set for dinner with a singular candle in the center. Frank opens the door and Pete stands there waving a thick manila envelope. "You owe me many drinks," he says as he slaps the envelope against Frank's chest and steps inside. "I spent over three hours in the file morgue. Even missed a bueno photo op. Vice-Mayor Stein fell again."

               Frank pulls out the contents of the envelope: Xeroxes of newspaper clippings... familiar looking newspaper clippings, plus one not to familiar. "'The Waiting Man' by Matthew Pelissier?"

               "It's a book review... Pelissier was Alexzander Beyzar's guard on Death Row."

               "Any good?"

               "Alexzander Beyzar had hot dogs or sausage or something like that for his last meal."

               "Yeah, so?"

               "That's what the review said, too. 'Yeah, so?'" Frank nods and beings poring over the articles as Pete moves to the nicely set dinner table. "How's it coming with John Doe? Getting anywhere?" Pete stops and picks up the candle. "Trying to get anywhere?"

               "Ray Toro. He mentioned his name this afternoon."

               "Think he's married?"

               Frank ignores Pete and continues to read. "He wrote every single one a' these."

               "Probably not," Pete says as he replaces the candle and winks at Frank.

               "I've only known him a few days, Pete."

               "Sometimes that's all it takes."

               "Think this Toro guy is still around?"

               "He is, he's a million years old," Pete answers, smiling. "I notice you're staying in this evening."

               "Yeah, well, while you're busy noticing things, why don't you go back and ask personnel about him? I mean, you do work for the same paper."

               "Hello, Pete," the man with no name interrupts, causing the two men to wheel around.

               "Hey... you're talking!" Pete observes.

               The man looks very handsome, despite the fact that most of what he's wearing belongs to Frank and is too small for him. "I hope it's okay I borrowed some clothes."

               Frank opens his mouth, but Pete butts in. "Sure. Fine."

               "And don't worry. I didn't mess with your stuff," the man says, smiling at Frank.

               "I like your voice," Pete comments.

               "I like being able to finally use it."

               Frank catches Pete staring and slaps him hard on the back. "Well, you don't wanna be late."

               "For what?"

               "For that thing," Frank says, forcing a smile.

               "Oh. Right. He living here now?"

               Frank sighs and shoves Pete out the door without an answer. "Lemme know if you find Toro."

               Once the awkwardly silent dinner is over, the man with no name wanders around the apartment, looking at Frank's photographs. Frank pours another glass of wine and watches the stranger. "These people your family?"

               "No. I don't know who they are. They came with the frames," Frank says, earning an odd look from the man with no name. "They're antiques."

               "Hm. Maybe I should get a few of these." Next, the man moves to Frank's desk, examining the faced photographs of people he's searching for, the stack of phone books, the lists of names on the walls. "Can a person make a good living finding heirs?"

               "One, two million. I lost track."

               "I was just wondering why you stopped being a policeman."

               "The thing about working in Missing Persons is you spend twenty-four hours a day looking for people, but hardly ever find anybody. Or if you do find 'em, they're either in deep with some pimp or decomposing in a field somewhere," Frank says with a grim look.

               "That what you spend your days trying to forget about? You said I was lucky to be living only in the present..."

               Frank sees the man wants more of an explanation, but he only shrugs and finishes his wine. "My past is like anybody else's. I made mistakes. I swore I wouldn't make them again, and then, an hour later, I did." The man with no name sits back down and listens intently. "Anyway, all I know is now I get to work when I feel like it, and when I find someone, it's always good news." Frank stares at his guest, thinking about what will happen when he finds his family.

               The man smiles and tries to choose his next words. "So, I'm trying to remember and you're trying to forget? We're the perfect couple."

               Frank smiles back. "Wanna move to the balcony?"

               "Sure," the man says, getting up and moving outside.

               As the two sit in lawn chairs, looking out over the city, lightning flashes in the distance. Frank raises a bottle of bourbon. "To life. All of them."

               He takes a drink and passes it to his guest. He then takes a sip of bourbon and shudders as he looks up. "It's sprinkling."

               Frank watches him as he tilts his head back to catch a few drops. "Hey..." He sets down his drink and reaches into his coat pocket. "I got a present for you." He cups his hands and extends them to the man as he turns. "I've been thinking that I can't keep going around calling you 'him' and 'he' all the time. It's just too impersonal, y'know? So..." Frank slowly opens his hands and they're empty. "I got you a name."

               The man can't help but smile and Frank fixes his eyes upon him. "What is it?"

               "Well, Ralph's no good... and Juan doesn't really work. How'd you feel about George?"

               "George?"

               "Well, you had a G inscribed on your ring and George Harrison is my favorite Beatle. You sorta remind me of him, too. He was called the Dark Horse because he was darker and more mysterious than the others."

               "Is this the older, hairier George Harrison?"

               "No, this would be the young, lean, perfect George Harrison."

               Frank watches the man as his eyes move away and come back, then move away again. "I could be married."

               "I wouldn't care," Frank admits.

               They sit there silent for a moment as the rain starts to fall heavier. The man takes a sip of his drink and shudders again, then reaches over and takes Frank's hand. He holds it up for a moment, then open it and takes out his 'name.' "Okay. George it is."

               A few minutes later, Frank decides they better head inside from the rain. They enter the apartment, both soaking wet from the rain. George looks down at himself and sighs. "I better change." He wants to the bedroom while Frank walks to the closet and starts to take off his coat. He pauses and pulls George's stray glove from the pocket. He looks down the hall and freezes.

               He watches George's shadow as he undressed somewhere in the bedroom. A moment later, George exits the bedroom wearing one of Frank's shirts; and only one of Frank's shirts. For a few moments, nobody moves, the silence becoming heavy on the both of them. "Something's supposed to happen now. I just don't remember what," George whispers as he wraps his arms around Frank's neck and kisses him. He then backs away slightly and looks down.

               Frank blinks a few times and nods slowly. "That's a lot like what happens."

               "Now what?"

               "We unbutton my shirt," Frank says as he begins to undo the black buttons on George's shirt.

               "I thought you said your shirt."

               "This is my shirt," Frank smirks.

               George looks up at Frank as he finishes. "What happens next?"

               "We move to the couch."

               Arms around each other, they shuffle the few feet to the couch and fall onto it with Frank on top. "We'll ruin it," George says, out of breath.

               "It's already ruined," Frank mumbles before kissing George.

               "But this is exactly what happened with Alexzander and Jonathan."

               "I'm not Alexzander," Frank says as he kisses George again.

               Later that night, as rain pelts the window beside the bed, George sleeps with his back to Frank. Frank slowly opens his eyes and stares at the back of his lover's head. He reaches for him, but, as George rolls over, he sees that it's actually Jonathan Beyzar lying beside him. He raises a pair of scissors and shouts, "These are for you!" Before Frank can even sit up, Jonathan plunges the scissors into his throat.

               Again, Frank opens his eyes and quickly sits up as something drops onto his throat. He relaxes as he spots the leaky ceiling above the bed. It's still raining outside and George is sleeping soundly beside him. "Jesus, now I'm dreaming this shit." He slowly gets up and shuffles into the living room. He turns on his desk lamp and sits down before picking up the review of 'Waiting Man' and scanning it. Along with the review are photographs of the author, Alexzander, and Jonathan. He looks at a grainy photograph of Jonathan, then thoughtfully looks back to the bedroom.

               The next morning, Frank and George, both dressed in Frank's clothes, exit the building together and start up the street on foot. "We'll try everything on the menu, see what you like and then..."

               Behind them, a man in his early-thirties, with black hair, good looks, and worn-out clothes, gets out of his car and starts towards the two. "Gary?" Frank half-looks behind him, but keeps walking, causing the man to hurry after them. "Gary!"

               Frank and George both stop and turn around as the man rushes up to George and hugs him. "Hey..." Frank starts, but is interrupted.

               "Thank God you're alright!"

               "Hey!"

               The man backs off a moment. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

               "No," George responds cautiously.

               "A few days, it'll all come back. I promise."

               "Who the hell are you?" Frank asks, defensive.

               "I'm sorry," the man says, extending his hand. "Bert McCracken."

               Frank ignores the hand. "Yeah, so?"

               "This is my fiancée," Bert says, motioning towards George.

               Frank's face twitches only slightly, while George's entire body goes stupid. Frank and Bert catch him as his legs buckle at the knees. "You okay?"

               "Fine," George replies, avoiding Frank's eyes. He stands up and leans against a parked car for support.

               "When I got home and you weren't there, I went crazy. Then I saw your picture in the paper and..."

               "Why doesn't he recognize you?"

               "It must be the Dalmane," Bert says as he reaches into his pocket to produces a small vial of pills.

               "The what?"

               "Dalmane."

               Frank takes the bottle from him and examines it. "Gary Reagan..."

               "It's for insomnia," Bert explains, suddenly getting distant as he notices George's clothes. "Sometimes it causes memory lapse. Honey, are those his--"

               "So, this has happened before?"

               "Once, when he took too much, but I was around that time. Whose clothes are those?"

               George can't look either of them in the eye. Frank returns the bottle to Bert. "Where were you this time?"

               "I had a job interview back east."

               Frank quickly takes George's hand and covers the ring. "What kind of ring does he wear?"

               George looks expectantly at Bert. "It's an Irish Wedding Band. I gave it to him in high school."

               George deflates and Bert looks annoyed. "Yeah, well, I'm still gonna need a little more--" Frank stops as Bert reaches into his coat pocket and produces a glove and hands it to George.

               "I found this near the front door. You must have dropped it on your way out."

               Frank sighs, realizing it's game over since Bert has the missing glove. He lets go of George's hand and he puts the glove on and stares at it. George begins to cry, feeling more lost than ever. "Why can't I remember you?"

               "You will. I swear you will. Just like before..."

               Frank and George stare at each other for a moment and Bert looks from one to the other, annoyed. "Uh, is there some sort of fee involved here?"

               Frank huffs and turns away from the couple. "Forget it."

               "You should get something for your...trouble," George presses, earning a hurtful look from Frank.

               "At least let me pay your expenses."

               "Just take good care of him," Frank says, before turning to George. "I'll go get your other glove."

               "That's all right," George replies. Frank stops and turns around as George stands up straight. "Keep it." Bert watches as George tentatively extends his hand to Frank. "I don't know what-- Thank you for everything... Mr. Iero."

               Frank stares at his hand. He'd much rather kiss him, but he accepts the handshake and holds on for a long time. "Sure. Have a nice life." Frank watches as Bert puts an arm around George, kisses him, and starts leading him off down the street.

               "The car's just up here. I think we should go straight to the doctor..."

               Frank thrusts his hands in his coat pockets and starts back to his apartment. He pauses at the foot of the steps and pulls George's original glove halfway out of his pocket. He looks off at Bert and George and narrows his eyes. "Hey..." He takes a small step forward and Bert and George both turn to him. Frank shakes his head and chuckles. "Man, you were this close. I mean, the glove thing was a nice touch."

               "I don't know what you're talking about," Bert says defensively.

               "There's just one, teeny, little problem," Frank explains as he holds up George's original glove. "It's for the wrong hand, Bert."

               George stares at the glove in Frank's hand, then at the one in his. Bert straightens and says nothing for one moment as he and Frank eye each other. A second later, Bert takes off running. Frank starts after him, flying past George and over a hedge. He narrows his eyes as he closes in on Bert once he turns the corner. Once Frank is close enough, the tackles Bert and they both go down on the cement. Frank immediately hops to his feet and kicks Bert in the chest. When he goes to kick him again, Bert dives and rolls away. By the time Frank realizes he's missed, Bert is on his feet and pivoting at the hip before roundhouse kicking Frank in the side of the head. With almost inhuman speed, Bert spins and kicks Frank again, causing him to fall backwards on the cement. Bert takes this as his chance to get away and takes off running across the street.

               "Frank!" George yells as he runs up to the beaten man.

               Frank shakes him off and gets up before starting to run again. A moment later, Frank hears a car start and sees it as the vehicle pulls out and lays rubber up the street. Frank gives one last burst of speed, then stops as the car disappears around the corner. "Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know people may be pissed I don't have smut in this fic yet but deal. I don't want this one bogged down with sex because so much else is going on, okay? We can assume that Alexzander/Jonathan have had sex and that "George"/Frank have had sex at this point. If you're wondering where, it was the couch scenes. Please review!


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